


Fallen Stars

by nahul



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Florists, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Language of Flowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahul/pseuds/nahul
Summary: It didn't make sense to Akaashi — a star should never lie amid a bed of white lilies.





	Fallen Stars

**Author's Note:**

> "The fleeting thought that he was a "star" crossed my mind."

For a while, he just works mindlessly. On autopilot, adroit fingers swiftly collecting flowers, throwing them into a cluster of solemn colours that compliment the occasion perfectly. He avoids the thoughts that tumble around in his mind, doesn’t allow them an ounce of spotlight as he keeps his breathing even, eyes steady. Focused on the job, any tendrils of emotions linked to the job are cleanly cut off from him.

All that really exists is the bouquet of flowers that he holds within his hands, threading lilies between the breaks of pink carnations that have been specifically requested. A symbol of remembrance that breaks free from the oppressive trails of white that surround it. Not surrendering himself to the thought that floats in between the empty crevices of his mind, he throws himself into his work, into the art of flowers that sew languages together through moods and explosions of colour. Some good, some bad.

Some unspeakably impossible. 

Akaashi hesitates, soul freezing as his eyes trace over the piece before him. Fragile flowers wrapped around each other, intertwined stalks that convey intertwined lives and emotions that bleed into each other. He can feel it, the trickle of distraction that slithers through his thoughts, an interference in his otherwise preoccupied mind. Invasive pricks onto his conscience, dragging his emotions towards the edge of a line he doesn’t want to cross. Not whilst working.

Yet as his hands clasp the bouquet of flowers, as he places them into the flower arrangement he’s become so accustomed to, his mind cannot help but fall back down along that path. That path of sadness and destruction that leads to nothing but the answer to the one question he’s been avoiding the entire day. The question he’s been ignoring since he picked the lilies up, since he picked up the chrysanthemums and crimson roses and pink carnations and set to the job he’s been asked to do.

It was getting more difficult to ignore, the answer that rolls around his mind, the answer to the question of who this bouquet of flowers was for.

It is wrong and disjointed and made no logical sense, and Akaashi just cannot make sense of the entire situation. A puzzle has been laid out before him, yet none of the pieces will fit together 

The mere implication that he was making an arrangement of flowers that symbolise death and sadness and grief in all its rawness for the one person whose light had never flickered before strikes him. Lashes him again and again, and perhaps the thought of a supernova collapsing in on itself flies through his mind like a comet, ricochets off the walls of his mind and fills the empty spaces with emotions that shouldn’t be connected to his job.

Because flower arrangements make sense and are calming and the pattern of white lilies laid out before him has never hurt him like this before. Instead of finding comfort in the relaxing sea of flowers set out before him, they taunt him, their arrangement screaming one of a grief that should never be allowed to exist within any realm. He wants to abolish it.

Abolish the darkness that creeps into his soul and spreads through his body like masmia. 

The darkness doesn’t wash away; it remains there for a day or two. Watching, waiting, ready to pounce when his heart feels ready to pour itself out fully, watching this well of emotions build up inside him as though it’s the climax to a grand performance. 

_ (And he cannot wait for the final curtain to fall.) _

He finds his feet work on autopilot when the time comes. Polished shoes don’t stub themselves on thin air as he walks. Delicate footsteps pave the path of a man whose thoughts feel fragile, as though one touch of them could break him himself. There’s an intoxicating sense of gloom that enriches the air with the spirit of misery. Misery that seeps into any crevice of his soul not already ravaged with grief.

He knows not whether his feelings will remain in one piece when the time comes for him to speak; when he climbs up and reads the eulogy to thousands, when he lets out all the thoughts that link back to one Bokuto Koutarou. It’s a eulogy that shouldn’t be burning a hole in his breast pocket; a eulogy that shouldn’t exist at all.

Because who could say that a star would burn out that quickly? Would fade and fizzle in the early afternoon of its life, in the peak of its summertime. A star that soaks into the blackness of the night before the chilling months of November have a chance to creep in and taint the skylines with darkness. 

A star whose life dictates when summer is, eradicated in one short blast of hopelessness that falls into echoes of nothingness. Carried along on the sigh of a wind that can no longer caress the brightest star in the existence of the celestial plane. A star that outshone the sun for a mere second before the jealousy of the sun shot it down into a blackhole that leads into the ends of oblivion.

It’s only when he lays down the flowers next to the casket that there’s a lapse in the perfect facade he’s been building up for a while now. When the fragile petals of the lilies accidentally brush against his fingers and he’s thrown back into this world where everything is too much. 

Every sense seems to roll into him and he can’t handle the feeling of guilt that washes over him and every voice is too loud. Too much. A gentle clap on his shoulder feels like it rattles his very bones; shakes his very core as he almost trips over his shoes.

“Akaashi, I didn’t mean to startle you.” It’s Kuroo’s voice. 

A strong, grounding voice, weakened with the tell-tale tint of dolour that seems to have clung to everything Akaashi has touched recently. Akaashi clears his throat, painting something resembling a smile on his face as he tries to wipe away the trails of melancholia that have begun to taint his face.

“No, it’s okay, Kuroo. I’m just… tired, haven’t slept well recently,”

The silence wavers between them, stretches out for miles and miles, sizzles into nothingness.

“I… I understand. Sorta. It’s… unfair,” he frowns.

Akaashi wants to frown at that statement. Wants to shrug off Kuroo’s arm around his shoulder and shout and kick and create a fuss. Work up a storm that cannot be dissipated with sheer words. Irrevocable actions, he feels the urges rise inside him like flames. Leaping up, igniting the hopelessness with coals of irritation.

He simmers. Rage is not what he needs. So he lets Kuroo’s arm rest around his shoulders, lets the pressure within him disintegrate back into the backdrop of hopelessness that overtakes once more. Lets the grief wash over him once more, wavering ever so slightly. He wants to walk away from the entire situation, exit the entire world and let it fall behind him.  

“It is,” he mumbles, and he cannot find the strength to face Kuroo again.

Shrugs him off instead, stumbles away from the flowers he’s arranged so precisely. Adroit hands that fumble now with a tissue between them, stumbling footsteps that trip over thin air and carpets as he locates the bathroom. 

Emotions that seem to have been playing a catastrophic game of jena come toppling down as tears begin to leak from his eyes. 

Crimson roses that denote grief, chrysanthemums denoting death itself, a horrible mix that tastes like bitter guilt on the back of his throat. So wrong, so disgustingly wrong when placed by the casket of a star that’s fallen way too soon.

 


End file.
